


there beneath the blue suburban skies

by Missy



Category: Almost Famous (2000)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Humor, Slice of Life, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-17
Updated: 2012-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-31 08:26:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Penny and William meet in Morocco years later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there beneath the blue suburban skies

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle: Prompt: Almost Famous, Penny Lane/William, never forget, Morocco

Morocco was turning Penny – slowly but surely – into the sort of woman she’d always planned to be. She saved her money, working as a waitress in coffee bars and taking in odd jobs to make ends meet until she finds the right apartment in a stucco-lined, brown-tiled apartment house. She lived off of strong coffee and great meals, and too many cigarettes, and wrote half-baked songs on scrap paper.

She’d been making music of her own, under the orange trees of the marketplaces she frequented, and that drew men to her – men she would only allow into her body, her heart, if they met the right qualities, had the possibility of inspiration in their souls. There were, naturally, very few men that met her standards, but she still had her fun. 

William was over thirty years old when she saw him next; he was sporting terrible 80’s helmet hair and a Boston tee-shirt and was there to ‘rap’ with a couple of artsy-fartsy new-wave types who were trying to dry out from a massive and public heroin binge. It was, ultimately, a matter of chance; he’d found her singing and stood there, gaping, for a moment.

Instantly, they fell into the old patterns of friendship – she showed him the coffee house she planned on buy sometime, and he showed her pictures of his family, the girl. It was awkward and strange and totally familiar. 

He’d grabbed her by the forearm and pulled her close to him under the archway of her pale green apartment. Up the stairs they’d tripped, happily laughing, unable to believe that this was happening.

She stripped off the gauzy outfits she wore, he his tourist rags, and they rolled like cavepeople about her bed. He cupped her breast and nearly came; she laughed to discover the salty, strong size of him with her inner thigh, the tips of her fingers, and the edge of her tongue.

William came almost instantly.

He petted her to exhausted comfort, in the off chance that he couldn’t get it up again. Then, in the drowsy silence of the early morning, they made love. 

And it was _great_ ; like a really good box of chocolate, or lying down after walking forty miles, the best comfort a human being could find. Their hips knew what to do, and she clenched when he rocked, pushed when she pulled; she reached down and stroked herself off while he stroked himself wildly to orgasm.

Just before dawn, Penny gave him half of a sweet almond pastry and as much of her coffee as he’d take; for hours, they smoked and made love and talked about music (yes Cyndi Lauper; no to Lionel Ritchie). When he sheepishly asked if she’d read Pamela Des Barre’s book and she found herself ranting about Pamela, about the girls who sold their fame as groupies out for money. “If you don’t love the music you shouldn’t be fucking musicians,” she declared. 

“So she should’ve starved herself?” William

“She’s not doing it for the money. She’s doing it for the attention,” Penny declared, as if she personally knew Pamela and had a stake in her being right or wrong. “I’m writing now.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You can’t say that and not play for me.”

So, smiling, she pulled out her guitar and – entirely nude, plays him a new song she’s been writing. He sits are her feet, awed, the way she used to with Russell, until the song was over.

Then he applauded for her until she had to kiss him, make love to him, one more time.

Later that day, she took him to the airport and left him with advice.

He married a girl he’d met at Rolling Stone two years later – and Penny attended the wedding.

One day, when Penny was older, when she’s adopted a couple of kids and her coffee house was a huge success and her music had a huge independent following, she cracked open William’s autobiography with a bottle of wine and laughed herself sick.

He recalled his life with Stillwater, his long friendship with Penny, and, ultimately, the crowning achievement of consummating his love with her in her Moroccan flat, as the greatest time in his life – better than meeting Michael Jackson, working for Jann Wenner, and dating Farrah Fawcett. All of those comparisons to Penny and a sylph, a goddess, are embarrassing, yet the truth of them make her quite proud, in a vainglorious way. When William describes being with her as being similar to ‘touching the heart of a goddess, stroking the satin cheek of a queen’, the press started calling, and the whole production made her semi-famous in the groupie world. Invitations for reunions pour in – but what kind of relationship could Penny possibly develop with Bebe Buell? Her life is her art, her kids, and her now, and after nearly breaking herself on the rocky shores of love she was done with the whole scene. Let them come to her now. 

Russell didn’t call. Once. 

Her daughter had Penny’s restless spirit – developed, she decided, through osmosis – and talked often of seeing America. She asked Penny if she REALLY knew Humble Pie, Mott The Hoople, and Stillwater, and Penny told her the truth. Janis seemed, for once, stunned that her pretty mother possessed some kind of allure, and not just a has-been coffeehouse owner pouring drinks for drunks. “I can almost believe you’re the same girl,” Janis declared, “if I squint really hard.”

“At least it worked on somebody,” Penny laughed. But the sound was bittersweet.


End file.
